Devious Vow: Chapter 1

The first punch always hurts the most.

No matter how ready you are, how much you brace for it, or how far in advance you see the swing coming. When it connects, when Peytor’s fist slams broadside into my jaw? It hurts like a motherfucker.

But after that?

I blink away stars, staggering back and allowing the numbness to creep over me as the crowd roars.

After that, you adjust. The numbness becomes your ally. The pain helps you focus. The smug look on your opponent’s face motivates you to recalibrate and slow down time, until you can see the path forward to victory, marked out clear as day.

Which I do. Instantly.

Feign left hook. Block his haymaker. Right fist to ribs, knocking out his breath. Dodge the wild counterattack. Left forearm to right ear, temporarily stunning him. Use his confusion to hit his ribs again, cracking the ones already weakened from the first hit. Break nose. Left hook to temple. Right to jaw. Finish with right uppercut.

This is my zone, shaking off that first blow and relishing the look of triumph on an unsuspecting opponent’s face. This is where I see the exact roadmap to victory—clear as IKEA instructions in neon letters hanging in the air in front of my face.

I’m the same in court. Let the opposition draw first blood; garner the first nod of approval from the judge, or the first emotional response from the jury. Allow them to sit back, pleased with themselves.

Then comes my counter, followed by the next, and the next, until finally comes the glee of watching the smug look fade from their faces as I shred them under the blind gaze of justice.

But for now, in the dirty, grimy boxing ring in the middle of the old liquor distribution warehouse in Bushwick, I restrain myself. Again, the instructions for how to obliterate Peytor, my opponent this match, are almost literally glowing in the air between us.

However, this match has a lot of interest. And with interest come big bets and wads of cash being waved around.

…Also, I may or may not, via a friend, have put down a sizable “wager” with the on-site bookies on Peytor getting me to the ground in the first round.

Of course, I also put big money on me knocking Peytor the fuck out in that same first round.

I’m not taking a dive for the money. That’s not why I bet on shit like this.

It’s the rush. The thrill of the coin toss. The uncertainty. Or, as Taylor and my brother are all too eager to point out, there’s a chance I’m more of a degenerate gambler than I’d care to admit. But to that, your honor, I call bias, hearsay, and leading the witness.

So, that all said, I don’t immediately mount my counter-assault. I allow Peytor to edge in on me. Which, admittedly, is a shit idea when you’re fighting six-foot-four and two-hundred-fifty-pounds-of-borscht-and-vodka-fed Russian Bratva muscle.

But really, none of this is being left up to chance. I’m ready, even as I shake off the first hit.

The second one slams into my jaw again, momentarily blinding me. But the pain is lesser now that the numbness from the first has set in. Still, I stagger back from that second hit. And even though it bruises my ego, I allow my legs to wobble and a knee to drop to the grimy floor. Predictably, the idiots in the crowd who had the poor judgment to bet against me go wild.

I glance to my right, catching Kratos’ eye. To most of the assembled crowd, Kratos Drakos is a younger, though by far the largest, brother of Ares Drakos, head of the Drakos Greek mafia family.

He’s also my fence for most of the bets I’ve placed tonight.

The Drakos family is one of my firm’s—that would be Crown and Black—biggest and most notorious clients. We handle almost all their legitimate legal needs, especially now that one of our top partners, Elsa Guin, is married to Hades, another of the Drakos brothers. But we’re also on retainer for any, let’s say, less than legitimate legal needs they might have.

About a year ago, Kratos and I figured out we were both low-key in the same underground fight clubs when we spotted each other at an event much like tonight’s, and so we started training together here and there.

Over the roar of the crowd and Peytor hurling insults at me as I take the knee, Kratos rolls his eyes and folds his massive arms over his massive chest.

“Pay attention,” he mouths. “He’s going to mess you up.”

Not. Fucking. Likely.

I draw in a breath, slowing my surroundings. I hear the crunch of the grit under Peytor’s feet as he advances, and the dull roar of the crowd, and the thud of my pulse.

I feel the first hit seeping into my soul, hardening and focusing me.

My lips curl dangerously.

That first punch is a gift. It’s fuel. I learned that the hard way at the age of six, when the “first punch” was an SUV t-boning my parents’ car at forty-seven miles per hour and pure terror being tattooed on my soul with each bounce and roll of the car until the lights went out.

Until I opened my eyes for the first time as an orphan.

My parents’ death taught me that first punch lesson. It was reinforced a few times over the years, like when my adoptive parents died as well.

But she was the one who carved that lesson into my fucking chest.

Eloise.

The first punch hurts the most.

It’s the best thing she ever did for me. And I’ve never forgotten it. In fact, I’ve made it my personal mantra. I let it flow through my veins with each throb of my pulse. Let it govern every thought. Every decision, personal or professional. Every case. Every move. Every fleeting, meaningless, single-serving “relationship” since.

The first punch hurts the most.

After that, it’s just numbness.

And numbness is fuel.

Peytor is almost on top of me as I slowly lurch to my feet. The crowd is screaming and waving cash and betting stubs in the crappy neon lights hanging from the ceiling of the warehouse. Dust, grime, and grit chokes the air as Peytor grins, mistaking my focus for being stunned.

Yeah, that’ll cost him.

He’s winding up for a wild hit when I exhale slowly and put the plans glowing right there in my mind’s eye into action.

Peytor flinches and jerks back to avoid the left hook that never actually comes. He swings a wild haymaker which I block easily with my left forearm as I slam my right fist into his ribs. I hear the wheeze of his breath leaving his lungs and dodge his wild counter. My left forearm bashes into his right ear, and I relish the dazed look in his eyes as the disorientating feeling of having his inner ear turned to scrambled egg stuns him.

His confusion is my friend. I hit his ribs again in the exact same spot, hearing the satisfying crack as one—possibly two—of them fractures.

His nose is next. Then his right temple. Then the left side of his jaw, which turns the lights out behind his eyes.

The uppercut is purely for show at this point, but I do it anyway, sending Peytor reeling backward before he hits the ground like a sack of bricks.

The crowd goes apeshit. Men roar and scream obscenities in seven different languages and fists wave handfuls of cash. Two fights break out.

I roll my shoulders and crack my neck as I walk over to the edge of the ring. Kratos is waiting for me, sighing and shaking his head.

“What?” I shrug as I squirt some water from my water bottle into my mouth, slosh it around, and spit it out again on the floor.

“You don’t feel bad about this at all, do you.”

I give him a look. “What, winning? Not really, no. Am I supposed to?”

My giant friend chuckles a deep, rumbling laugh. “I mean leading him on like that. Fencing bets against yourself through me.”

“What? I want to give them a show.”

“Oh, fuck off, Alistair,” he chuckles. “You wanted to double your winnings by putting that second bet on him getting you to the floor in the first round.”

“It’s not about the money, Kratos.”

As if underlining my point, I take my Rolex Submariner—the one literally owned and worn by Steve McQueen—from his outstretched hand and slip the two-hundred-and-forty-thousand-dollar watch onto my wrist.

It’s not about the money. It’s about the rush of the fight. The adrenaline high of combat. The fucked-up therapy that comes with using violence to confront the demons of the past. And yes, the thrill of the gamble, fuck you very much Taylor and Gabriel.

But also…especially lately…it’s about her.

Eloise LeBlanc.

Eloise, who I turned my back on ten years ago when she cut out a sizable chunk of my soul. Eloise, who should have stayed the fuck out of my life after that.

Eloise, who should have stayed if not in my past, then at the very fucking least on her fucking side of the country in California with her shithead mafioso husband, instead of moving here.

New York is my goddamn town. And having her living in it now as well, even if we’re buffered by eight million other people, is…problematic.

Hence, throwing myself into underground fights like this at least three times a week recently.

“Look around you, Kratos,” I shrug, glancing around. “Pure entertainment. It’s all for show. It’s theater.”

Kratos rolls his eyes again. “This isn’t fucking Shakespeare, bud. Or a courtroom.”

“All the world’s a stage.”

Kratos sighs and nods past me to where Peytor’s buddies are scraping him off the ground. “He gonna be okay? That was fucking brutal.”

“Cracked rib, maybe two, probably a concussion, macular contusion, loose lower molar, broken nose—and a completely obliterated sense of pride.” I pat Kratos on the shoulder. “He’s going to be fine.”

Peytor moans pitifully behind me and spits a large mouthful of blood onto the ground as his friends drag him away.

“I mean…eventually,” I shrug.

Whatever. This is my therapy. And besides, Peytor Chernov is a piece of shit anyway.

“You ready to go collect my money?”

Kratos snorts. “After I take my cut? Sure. Oh, and one more thing…” His look darkens.

“That doesn’t sound good.”

“It depends on what phase of the moon you and your brother are on right now. He’s here, looking for you.”

Shit.

To be clear, Gabriel, my adoptive brother since I was six, is my best friend in the world. He’s my other half. The yin to my yang. The grounding force to my chaos.

We also sometimes want to kill each other, and would probably benefit from beating the shit out of each other in this very ring. But I like to think that’s just the sign of a strong and healthy brotherhood.

I glance around, my eyes scanning the crowd of unruly criminal underworld types. A few seconds later, I spot Gabriel standing by the door, looking hilariously out of place in his Tom Ford suit and polished dress shoes. His arms are crossed, and his brows furrow deeply as he glares at me.

“Gabriel isn’t the biggest fan of your extra-curricular activities?”

“Whoa. Nothing gets past you, does it, Kratos.”

“Har har.”

Toweling off my face and bare chest, I clamber over the side of the ring and make my way through the crowd. I get a few jeers from the suckers who lost on my fight, and grins and claps on the back from the smart ones who made money off it. Finally, I find myself standing in front of my brother.

He’s got the same dark hair and hazel-green eyes as our sister, Tempest, while I’ve got dirty dark-blond hair with piercing blues. He and I are the same age, same height, and same build, despite us not sharing a single drop of genetics. Same profession, even. Other than that, we’re polar opposites.

“If I’d known you were coming, I’d have gotten you VIP seats.”

He gives me a look. “Now, would those seats be next the Nazi biker gang, or the Columbian cartel?”

“For you, Gabriel, it can be both.”

He glares at me. “What the fuck are you doing here, Alistair?”

“I think it’s fairly obvious.”

He rolls his eyes as he exhales heavily. “Do you seriously think participating in underground fucking cage fights is in the best interests of the firm?”

“I don’t think what I do in my personal time has any effect whatsoever on the firm, actually.”

“You do understand that Crown and Black is now the most elite and sought-after law firm in all of New York City, right? You appreciate that you and I and Taylor worked our asses off to get it to that level? And here you’re playing Fight Club with a bunch of degenerates?”

“I prefer to think of it as networking and professional outreach. Degenerates have a way of frequently needing legal assistance, Gabriel.”

He arches a brow, clearly unamused.

“And I’m sorry, is this really about the firm’s reputation, or your political aspirations?”

I know for a fact that my brother has been meeting with a political consulting firm recently, and frequently. He keeps denying it whenever Taylor or I bring it up, but he’s about as sneaky as Elmer Fudd under Bugs Bunny’s watchful eye.

“There are no political aspirations, Alistair,” he sighs.

“Clearly,” I murmur as I rake my fingers down my jaw. “Well? Did you just come to break my balls about being here, or was there something else?”

“You weren’t answering your phone, and this is important.”

“You have my attention. Is it about the Chinellato case?”

“You really think I’d drive all the way out to fucking Brooklyn to go over that with you?”

“Maybe you just missed me⁠—”

“Alistair.”

There’s an icy coldness in his tone and a warning in his eyes that has me on edge in seconds.

“What the hell’s going on, Gabriel.”

He clears his throat and looks away. “We have a meeting tomorrow morning with a very eager, very wealthy, very notorious prospective new client.”

My brow creases. “That’s…generally considered a good thing, no? I don’t know about you, but I personally quite enjoy money and making more of it.”

His eyes lock with mine.

“The prospective client is Massimo Carveli.”

The name is all it takes for me to go from neutral to DEFCON 2. For my blood to turn to acid, my teeth to grind to dust, and my every muscle to tighten and coil.

Massimo Carveli is many things, including the head of his family organization after the death a year or so back of his father, Luca. He’s rich, powerful, enjoys expensive European sports cars and fine wine, and recently moved here to New York.

He’s also a complete fucking psychopath with extremely violent tendencies, a knack for cruelty, and a lust for even more power and wealth.

But there’s one thing that Massimo Carveli is that more than anything has a way of stabbing me in the heart and making me bleed, which is quite a feat considering I’m sure my heart was ripped from my chest cavity ten years ago.

He’s Eloise LeBlanc’s husband.

There’s a ringing in my ears as the world turns red at the edges. My fists clench so tight my knuckles pop. My jaw is grinding so viciously that I taste copper.

“Look, Alistair, we can⁠—”

“Alistair?”

I blink out of my blood-soaked daze when the second voice interrupts my brother. When I turn around, I see Antoine, one of the organizers of the evening, standing there.

“I don’t know if you’re up for it. But a lot of the guys who lost on that last fight are looking to see you in the ring again.” He smirks. “Probably want to win some of their money back.”

Gabriel swears behind me.

“Alistair, we have a meeting with the partners at nine fucking AM tomorrow⁠—”

“Who’s the fight with?”

Antoine grimaces. “Big Joe.”

So, yes, the idiots who lost money on me are definitely trying to get it back. Big Joe is a heavily tattooed Samoan dude closing in on seven feet tall, probably weighs twice as much as me, and has a fist like a fucking freight train.

But after what Gabriel’s just told me, I’m a fucking nuclear bomb waiting to blow.

…In short, Big Joe is the perfect opponent for me right now.

“Listen, Alistair,” Antoine makes a face. “You don’t have to. Let me see who else⁠—”

“Nah, set it up. Let’s get this party going.”

I turn away from a stunned Antoine and slip my watch back off, handing it to my brother.

“Hold this, will you?”

Gabriel grimly takes the watch and pockets it.

“Real talk, right now,” he growls quietly. “The money is potentially phenomenal. But if you say no⁠—”

“Let’s take the meeting.”

He eyes me carefully. “C’mon, man. There’s facing your demons, and then there’s whatever the fuck this is⁠—”

“Massimo Carveli is not my demon,” I growl.

“No, he just fucking married your demon!” he snaps back at me. “Which is exactly why I’m worried about⁠—”

“I’m a professional, Gabriel,” I say in a slow, measured tone, resting my palms on his shoulders. “So here’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to walk into that ring and put Big Joe in a big hole in the ground. Then I’m going to go home, have a shower, call someone I don’t care about to come over and bounce on my dick. Then I’m going to kick them out, get some sleep, and in the morning, I’m going get dressed, walk into our offices, and have yet another business meeting with yet another mafioso tough guy who needs us to keep the law at bay for a sizable markup on legal fees. That’s it.”

With a nod, I take my hands from his shoulders and start to turn away.

“What if she’s there?”

I freeze for a moment, my pulse thudding in my ears. Then, slowly, I turn to level my gaze at Gabriel.

“If she’s there,” he continues, “then what? Because I—we—can’t have World War Three going down in a conference room on Tuesday morning.”

“She won’t be.”

“But if she is⁠—”

“If she is,” I snarl, my teeth bared, my temper throbbing, and my blood scorching my veins. “If Eloise is there, she’ll be as dead to me as she was ten fucking years ago, okay?!” I snap. “And that’s the fucking end of it.”

I whirl away from my brother and storm over to the ring with so much viciousness on my face that even Big Joe looks worried as I hurdle the ropes and level my gaze at him.

Except, that was a lie. This isn’t the fucking end of it.

It’s only the beginning.

The first punch hurts the most.

And ten years later, I’m still fucking numb.